All the recently acquired content which had been Billy’s since he had come upon the poetic Bridge and the two had made their carefree, leisurely way along shaded country roadsides, or paused beside cool brooklets that meandered lazily through sweet-smelling meadows, was dissipated in the instant that he had realized the nature of the article his companion had been carrying and hiding from him.

For days no thought of pursuit or capture had arisen to perplex him.  He had seemed such a tiny thing out there amidst the vastness of rolling hills, of woods, and plain that there had been induced within him an unconscious assurance that no one could find him even though they might seek for him.

The idea of meeting a plain clothes man from detective headquarters around the next bend of a peaceful Missouri road was so preposterous and incongruous that Billy had found it impossible to give the matter serious thought.

He never before had been in the country districts of his native land.  To him the United States was all like Chicago or New York or Milwaukee, the three cities with which he was most familiar.  His experience of unurban localities had been gained amidst the primeval jungles of far-away Yoka.  There had been no detective sergeants there—­unquestionably there could be none here.  Detective sergeants were indigenous to the soil that grew corner saloons and poolrooms, and to none other—­as well expect to discover one of Oda Yorimoto’s samurai hiding behind a fire plug on Michigan Boulevard, as to look for one of those others along a farm-bordered road.

But here in Kansas City, amidst the noises and odors that meant a large city, it was different.  Here the next man he met might be looking for him, or if not then the very first policeman they encountered could arrest him upon a word from Bridge—­and Bridge would get five hundred dollars.  Just then Bridge burst forth into poetry: 

  In a flannel shirt from earth’s clean dirt,
    Here, pal, is my calloused hand! 
  Oh, I love each day as a rover may,
    Nor seek to understand. 
  To enjoy is good enough for me;
    The gypsy of God am I.
  Then here’s a hail to—­

“Say,” he interrupted himself; “what’s the matter with going out now and wrapping ourselves around that swell feed you were speaking of?”

Billy rose.  It didn’t seem possible that Bridge could be going to double-cross him.

  In a flannel shirt from earth’s clean dirt,
    Here, pal, is my calloused hand!

Billy repeated the lines half aloud.  They renewed his confidence in Bridge, somehow.

“Like them?” asked the latter.

“Yes,” said Billy; “s’more of Knibbs?”

“No, Service.  Come on, let’s go and dine.  How about the Midland?” and he grinned at his little joke as he led the way toward the street.

It was late afternoon.  The sun already had set; but it still was too light for lamps.  Bridge led the way toward a certain eating-place of which he knew where a man might dine well and from a clean platter for two bits.  Billy had been keeping his eyes open for detectives.  They had passed no uniformed police—­that would be the crucial test, thought he—­unless Bridge intended tipping off headquarters on the quiet and having the pinch made at night after Billy had gone to bed.